


The Beginning After The End

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sibling Incest, post-AoU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He much prefers this: the Loki who doesn’t care when Thor sees his desire, and the depth of his need – and of his love. Only when Loki is confident enough to reveal his own obsessions will he ever be likely to believe that they are returned tenfold.</i>
</p><p>They are brothers. That is the only thing that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning After The End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schaudwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schaudwen/gifts).



> Just a little something for Christmas. xxx

The scent of the low hills is warm and rich, no matter the faint chill coming off the far mountains. Deep in the valley, the air remains welcome and easy. Fording the river proves an amusing challenge; their horses, war-bred and royally trained, plunge into the chosen waters without missing a step. Thor cannot help but laugh aloud to the sky. His brother throws him a half-curious look, but then returns to watching his own path. Determined and pragmatic though Loki remains, Thor can already see the loosening of muscles in his jaw, throat, the lean line of shoulders and spine – and he is glad for it.

It had been his own idea to take Loki away from Glaðsheimr, but had his brother not agreed Thor would have dragged him kicking and screaming from the palace all the same. The heightened drama that such action would have engendered still would have been better than allowing things to proceed as they had. Thor remained honest enough to admit he had done it as much for his own benefit, too. They were neither of them king, but with Odin’s inevitable abdication looming closer, both of his sons felt the weight of what lay ahead – even when it would be shared.

They set the horses free in a small meadow. The two mares prove happy enough to frolic, rolling about in the long sweet grass, glad to be free of the saddle. With half-curious eyes Thor follows Loki’s easy movements, the long fingers spelling runes upon the air. Loki explains not a word of it, and they were of a seiðr-rich dialect Thor could never hope to understand. He understood all the same that his brother had chosen to set an unseen ward. In that he might know should their mounts stray too far from the area – and with it, he adds a faint suggestion that will encourage them to remain where they were, with the brook to drink from and plenty of foliage and grass to eat.

Perhaps, too, there will be be a weave that will make others less curious about the goings-on within. But then, Thor hardly minds. Should any person of a friendly disposition stumble upon them, then Thor feels no shame in loving his brother as he chooses to. And if they are of a more violent persuasion, well, then battle has always been his second most preferred manner in which to expend the energy of heated blood and risen lusts.

They make their own camp somewhat further away, and closer to a calm shallow curve of the river. The sound of the water, tumbling over bank and rock and bed, could be little else but soothing by comparison to the constant chatter of the palace. It demands nothing of either of them. It exists only behind, and in faint murmur. By that alone it could almost be the sweetest sound possible.

Loki moves quiet about his work; the bedrolls are unpacked and unrolled, the fire circled in stone with the centre built to a strong apex. Thor collects for his brother what is required: the rocks, the kindling, the larger pieces of wood that will keep the fire in dim embers throughout the night entire. Given it is only late in the Asgardian summer, neither expects it to be overly chill even in the foothills – but then, neither expects to spend the evening entirely clothed. Or clothed at all, has Thor anything to say about it.

The changes wrought in Asgard by recent events have left them with little time for one other, at least in the way Thor would prefer. Oh, there has been time enough for the occasional quick and quiet fuck in some out of the way corridor, or amongst the stacks in the library, or once even upon Odin’s great oaken desk. But when the long days dwindled to their endings, it left them only evenings constructed of weariness and disconnect. It would not continue this way – it could not continue this way – but for now it is their lot.

But tonight will be for them alone.

The faintest hints of dusk have already set about gathering themselves at the height of the sky. Thor pays it little heed; daylight will linger for a little longer yet. It is even yet too soon to eat, though his stomach reminds him of the length and exertion of the ride. But he understands that food now will leave him lazy, and overly tempted by deeper desires. The grit of the road still rests yet upon his skin, grime under a thin layer of sweat. Already he peels himself from his clothes, glad for the taste of wind upon his skin, the faintest whisper of rain never far despite the raggedy puffs of clouds overshadowed by the wide expanse of blue above.

Loki, glancing upward, allows himself the lazy curve of one eyebrow. “Can’t you keep your clothes on for another moment?”

“No.” Thor flings his undershirt towards him, grins broadly at Loki’s scowl as he snatches it from the air. “Last one in dismantles the camp come morning!”

His little brother simply rolls his eyes – as well he might. Thor has turned and raced for the water, but when he comes to the edge it is to see Loki there already, floating upon his back, serene as the rock that parts the raging river about its smooth faces.

Standing upon the back, arms akimbo, Thor purses his lips in a little moue more suited to the babyish features of a toddler. “Loki. That is _cheating_.”

One hand moves in a vague gesture of dismissal, yet scarcely rises above the surface. “You never laid down the rules,” Loki observes, and cannot even be bothered to open his eyes. There’s still the faintest hint of a smile about his lips when he adds, “I recall no ban on seiðr.”

The easy amusement propels Thor forward. He takes three long strides into the water and then dives in without checking the depth; with the knowing grace of an otter he skims along just beneath the surface, reaching his brother in a half-dozen long strokes. Ducking down just a little, he claps one ankle with a quick hand, and a moment later feels it dissolve between his fingers. An answering yank catches him from below and he’s going down in a flail of limbs and shout muffled by the water filling his mouth; Thor comes up a moment later, laughing and spluttering, pushing hair out of his eyes as he rakes them about the surface, seeking someone he cannot even see.

“Are we really going to play this game?” he calls, glad and gleeful in his challenge; Loki’s answer is disembodied, would sound exasperated to anyone who had not known said voice since before memory.

“Why not?” he says, and Thor is laughing even as he lunges for that which he cannot see.

Indeed, there is no real reason not to. Such games come as natural as breathing to them both, and Thor drinks of it deep. He cannot help but find deep delight in the chase. Loki moves quick through the mineral-rich waters, slim form flickering in and out with his seiðr; Thor cannot complain, for such trickery keeps him both sharp and honest. And then he simply enjoys watching him: like a silverfish beneath the shimmering surface, all pale skin and dark trailing hair.

Loki tires of the diversion first, rises from the river like a waterhorse with water streaming from the pale pelage of his flawless skin. Thor’s mouth goes very dry. Even though he is already in the water, he feels he would drown for this at but a word.

Wordless now, limbs pleasantly aching from the exertions of both ride and swim, Thor trails him back to the camp. His entire body is aflame with the desire to catch him about the slim waist, to press his lips against that place just behind Loki’s left ear. Instead he keeps quiet. There is an order to this, for all chaos has so changed the tempo of their most recent existence.

With a drying sheet kilted about his hips, Thor moves to assist his brother; Loki has enclosed himself in a loose robe, and has set about first kindling and then building up the fire. It allows them to prepare themselves a simple and welcome meal: richly marinated meats roasted upon skewers with sweet potatoes baked amongst the embers, accompanied by small neat salads made of greens and bright blossoms taken from Frigga’s own gardens. Sitting hip to hip, they eat from their own bowls while surreptitiously snitching the choicer-looking morsels from the other, night drawing over them like a blanket over drowsing children.

There are clay casks of simple wine, and stout ale; switching between the two, they find themselves warmed and loose, leaning into one another with every moment. Dessert follows: sticky honey-pastries which flake and drip no matter how they try to chase them with tongues and sharp twists of the wrist.

It feels easier to resort to taking them from one another’s hands; innocent as it seems at first, it soon devolves into eating from one another’s fingers, sucking and licking. Kisses follow, as inevitable as the stars that begin to scatter themselves in ancient pattern across the sky overhead.

With his usual careful fastidiousness, Loki has already prepared their bedding for the night. It proves more nest than proper soldier’s roll; the blankets and pillows are all duckdown and warm soft wool. Thor is as always glad for his brother’s hedonism as he lays him down, strips away the robe with greedy fumbling fingers to reveal the slim wonders beneath.

Much as he might wish only to gaze upon what is offered him, Thor has ever been more attuned to sensation. He doesn’t resist the urge to lay his own body upon his, covering Loki entire with his own self. For a long moment he does not move, simply allows their breathing to even, to fall into easy synchronicity.

With faint regret he draws back, though not without first pressing a kiss to the soft curve of Loki’s jaw. Drawing back he allows his hands to range down from the smooth muscle of shoulder and throat to carve the valley of his spine, to come to rest over the firm curve of his behind. They linger there but a moment; two longest fingers of his right hand dip into the warm crack, brushing against the furl of tight muscle hidden between.

Before Loki, Thor had never thought to enjoy this. But in the days since their Ragnarök, since the turning of the tides and the realignment of their fates, he has come to love everything his brother makes available to him – including his ass.

Settling down between his legs, he glances up to check on his brother. Loki lies in lazy languor, head turned to one side, long hair a dark spill of fire-tinted shadow. The glittering of his watchful, knowing eyes is the only real indication of how deep his craving runs; it demands tribute without further tarry. Thor cannot help his own small chuckle, and then turns gladly back to his work.

Opening his hands, Thor presses the palms over the firm muscle of his ass in lazy circles. So often he feels the urge to bring a hand down, to paint the shape of his hand in reddened raised flesh. But that is a game for another day. Tonight it will be something slow and simple instead. His hands move still, an easy movement that might have been innocent had they not both been stark naked, his cock already a throbbing warmth against one thigh. Dipping his head, Thor presses a kiss to the crease between buttock and thigh. A full body shiver is his reward. Running his tongue along the same skin earns a low groan, and he cannot help but chuckle all the while.

“So _easy_ , brother.”

The answering snort holds just enough warning to spark a different warmth low in Thor’s abdomen. “Do remember your face is within close proximity of my left foot.”

Carefully Thor gentles the cheeks apart. “Closer yet to something far more enticing,” he murmurs, and before Loki can come up with some other protest, his lips find anchor there. A satisfying gasp is the only auditory answer; the sleek shift of his body, muscles tight with sudden delight, is just as welcome. Humming with low satisfaction, Thor turns his attention to his work in earnest.

A play of tongue and lips has Loki gasping deep and hard within moments; with a devilish grin, he only presses harder, and deeper. In practice he’s never been fond of sloppy open-mouthed kisses, finding it too messy when considering that there are two people involved. But here he feels he can be as depraved as he pleases. Spit and drool alike leave all surfaces sheened and slick as he works Loki carefully to relaxation.

There is much to be enjoyed about intimacy with his younger brother, but if asked he would say without hesitation that it is this that pleases him most: that moment when he feels under his hands his brother beginning to lose his iron-silver grip on the cool and collected persona he masquerades behind almost every other moment he is awake. Thor has seen that mask stripped away only several times – some of those moments have proved terrifying, and deeply tragic. Only then had he known for the first time the aching misery and loneliness cruelly resident behind his brother’s clever tricks and tongue. He much prefers this: the Loki who doesn’t care when Thor sees his desire, and the depth of his need – and of his love. Only when Loki is confident enough to reveal his own obsessions will he ever be likely to believe that they are returned tenfold.

The musk of him is as familiar as a childhood nursery rhyme; nuzzling upward, Thor presses the tip of his nose under Loki’s balls, nudging them aside. It allows him just enough room for a slow flick of tongue on the underside of his cock, and then he draws back. He enjoys sucking cock, has taken Loki all to pieces more than once by use of fingers and lips alone, but it is not what he plans for tonight. Everything sits at the wrong angle, besides. It’s far easier to instead press his face between the cheeks, thumbs cradled in the hollows of his hips, gentling his beard over the sensitive skin like a cat marking its territory until Loki flaps a hand blindly downward, and pushes him away.

On his knees now, Thor settles himself into easy position. With one palm he in turn gentles Loki over onto his back. So willingly he comes, pupils wide, the green of the irises blackened by stoked desire. And so _lazy_ he is in this, elegant as a lion waiting to be brought its tribute meal. His teeth are bared, bright in the darkness, as Thor drags his hips upward and close against himself. Pale thighs spread in willing invitation, their cocks meeting in a heated rub and drag that has him hissing and chuckling in between clenched teeth.

The vial of oil comes to his hand as if by magic, its application sloppy and overindulgent. The amusement on Loki’s features mixes too well with the exasperation; Thor only grins, well-used to both. Taking himself in hand, he presses over the hole. At Loki’s sharply indrawn breath, he spares a hazed glance upward.

“Shall I come in?”

The challenge flickers as always in heavy hooded eyes. “Do you believe yourself welcome?”

The head of his cock, flushed and leaking, presses hard; it cannot be doubted what it desires. And despite Loki’s words, it proves so very easy to reach between them, to slip it past the ring of muscle; loosened as it has been, Thor’s girth still requires adjustment. He lets it happen in a long and slow slide. Loki’s head thrusts back as his chest expands with a keening wail, hands fisting in the blankets as his hips arch high, inviting his brother ever deeper.

This is an act looked down upon by most in Asgard; the one in Loki’s position is so often seen to be unmanned, made lesser by the conquest of his better, and his own base desire. Perhaps it would be different with another, but with Loki, Thor finds in this something far different. At this angle he can see the pleasure upon his face, mirrored by the satisfaction Loki finds in taking his brother into himself and holding him there. Strangely, he is doing little to encourage it, save in expression and sound. Thor instead is the one working to grant him such a gift; Loki merely greedily accepts it as his rightful due.

With the full length of himself inside, Thor halts all movement, holds himself over his brother. With breathing turned heavy and laboured, sweat stings his eyes though they have scarcely just begun. The pop and crackle of the fire at their side sounds like laughter. Loki’s lazy eyes, cracked half-open, search him with languid query.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” A slight thrust in, and it rocks Loki’s body entire. A chuckling laugh bubbles up from low in his throat even as Loki gives a faint moan of protest. Thor does it again, just to hear it one more time. Then he slides out, and slides in. Again and again he moves in just this way: long, slow strokes, dragging the head of his cock over the place that leaves Loki writhing and voiceless. The entire slender body trembles with a thousand tiny earthquakes when Thor at last pauses, leans down, and then captures his lips. Loki drinks of him as a man dying of thirst. So easily Thor gives himself over entire to the kiss, losing all sense of his separate self in the way they fit clean together.

Then Thor draws back up. The tightness of him is growing overwhelming; would be fine if this was one of their hurried encounters, cloistered somewhere cramped and scarcely private in between engagements, but he wants this to last. Two fingers press together, slip in wordlessly beside his cock.

Loki’s eyes are wide, mouth opened on an unspoken cry; when he manages words, they are ragged and raw. “What are you _doing_?”

“Feeling you.” He smiles, presses callused pads over the small spongy place that will bring him clear pleasure. “From the inside.”

Loki gasps, closes his eyes, forces them open even when white-hot pleasure is so clearly disrupting all rational thought. “I do believe you’re also enjoying this.”

And Thor only snorts in a manner he’d learned from his wry brother long ago. “Naturally.” The callused pads of his fingers now tease over the slickness of his own cock, revelling in the deep heat of Loki’s body. Loki’s quickening breath proves no protest; he does not ask him to stop. His own breathing has in turn begun to even out, the edge of his desire not so sharp, the blunting only temporary. Withdrawing his hand, Thor makes a grunt of pleasure to feel Loki loosened about him, just a little, the pressure no longer so hectic and all-encompassing.

When Loki makes no further sound, Thor resumes his lazy thrusts. The long hands, so very talented in their tricks, rise together; fingertips press first to his abdomen, before fitting into the hollows between the muscles. Spreading outward like the colours of an early morning sun, Thor cannot help but be reminded of the way Loki moves about his seiðr.

Now just one hand rises further upwards, but it is no penitent seeking the blessing of his god. Instead the clever fingers dart forward, pinch hard about the hard little nub of one nipple. Gasping, Thor doubles over at the waist, stuttering in his rhythm. The hand ghosts downward, fingertips dancing idly over the place where they join, sure and knowing at the edge of their pleasure.

Thor grins, resumes his pace even as Loki opens his legs just a little more, as if he knows how very much Thor enjoys watching himself disappearing into his brother’s ass. Sex has long been a favourite activity of his, and in all its myriad forms; in fact Thor has found some of most intense orgasms when Loki is buried balls-deep in his own ass.

But he has always had strange fascination with watching this. It sometimes brings a vague sense of discomfort; Thor understands that Loki would disappear inside of Thor if he could, wearing him as a shield against a world too ignorant to understand Loki’s own strengths and gifts. But in this Thor instead moves inside of him, is subsumed by him, becomes one with him by synergy rather than conquest.

Loki makes a soft sound, one almost of complaint. In answer Thor slows, then stops. Already Loki pushes at him until he withdraws. But then Thor is not allowed to go far. First grasping hands draw him down, engage him in a filthy kiss that is more teeth and tongue than anything more genteel. Then he is unceremoniously thrust over and onto his back, Loki positioning himself with knees at the level of Thor’s heaving ribcage. The rounded buttocks settle in the hollow of his hips, Thor’s cock brushing up against the damp slick channel of his crack.

A smile passes between them, the shared knowledge of mischief about to be managed. No words could ever be needed now. Already Loki rises up, Thor steadying him with one hand upon a slim hip, and then lowers himself down on the hot length of his cock. Thor gasps, lies very still. The urge to put his hands on him, to bounce him hard and fast on the ache of his own body, is vicious and burning. But this is not for him. He finds in that a strange contentment, in lying here for Loki’s use and satisfaction. But then it’s selfish, too: Loki is never so beautiful when he is taking all that he truly believes he deserves.

Even before he had been gifted Mjölnir, Thor had had an affinity for rain, for the harsh ozone and burning electric light of breaking thunderstorm. Many had compared him to the raw elemental energy of such preternatural display. But in this Thor knows they are wrong. Loki moves above him, wild and growing wilder yet; he is as the storm centre growing stronger with every passing second. This is the true heart of beating chaos, the growing potential of destruction, of renewal, of absolute change.

And that, in turn, is the hubris of the stormlord: believing that he himself might tame such raw energy, such unbridled power. The twist of hips, grinding in tight circle, draws a shout from him. There is no up nor down, just clenching heat upon his cock.

Hunched forward now, shoulders sheened with sweat, Loki’s pale skin is aglow in the heat of the fire. A short burst of frantic movement indulges the hunger upon his tight features, and then he slows to lazy circles once more. Beside them the fire continues its own primal dance despite the fact neither one has fed it more fuel – but then Loki himself is ablaze: a crown of embers, wreathed in flame.

With hands now braced upon Thor’s chest, Loki concentrates all his considerable strength into the up and down motion of his hips. Given the desperate speed, it must be painful for him, even as Thor knows he himself will be bruised in delicate places come morning. He does not care. When caught in the storm, he will forever chase it to its end.

Loki speaks words in some tongue beyond the Allspeak, choked and gasping and incomprehensible. It does not matter. Thor knows their true meaning. The hot spill of his brother upon his abdomen is confession enough, some flecks rising as high as his breastbone. The heaving chest, hanging head. Hands curling, nails dragging along his skin, raising red welts like the passage of bright memory.

Thor himself has not yet come. He basks instead the pleasure of watching Loki, having come undone, carefully reconstruct himself anew. The dichotomy of it is glorious: Loki, still split open upon his brother’s cock, but now regaining his composure as he draws himself upward, a prince holding forth before his court. The smile dawning upon his face is both mocking and indulgent alike.

“So patient,” he says, soft, half a question. Thor only gives a light shrug.

“I can wait.”

Loki tightens about him. “Oh?”

A groan rips free of his throat, startled and delighted both. “ _Brother_.”

The twist of his hips can only be called cruel. Thor arches up into it all the same, trembling hands steadying Loki even as his own world spins from his axis. Loki’s throaty laughter is that of a villain any hero would willingly surrender to. There are victories worth more than the simple rewards spoken of in the old stories.

“You should know better than to tease me so,” he murmurs, and Thor cocks his head, raises one golden eyebrow.

“But it comes so naturally.”

Laughing, rising once more, Loki pulls himself off Thor entirely. He cannot help a soft keening at the cool night air about his cock, hard and angry and red, curving up like a new-forged blade from between his trembling thighs. One hand comes down, slaps at his calf like he might scold a horse worrying at the bit.

“Come on, you oaf. Get up.”

His legs prove barely strong enough to support him – though it is not as if he must go far. Loki, long limbs drowsy and satiated, rearranges himself upon the nest of blankets. The dampness of his ass leaves his skin sheened in starlight; with legs sprawled wide, he reveals the well-used hole within.

Extending one arm, Loki cocks an elegant wrist in open invitation. From the grin on his face, wide and widening further, Thor knows his own jaw must have fallen low. The grin shimmers with easy self-satisfaction as Loki beckons him in. In this even the Silvertongue himself needs no words.

First Thor must go to his knees. Only then does he approach, moving forward so his legs are between Loki’s own, hips pressed to his. Their cocks rub together; his own hard and heavy, Loki’s soft and warm. Braced upon his forearms, Thor lowers himself so their foreheads press together. There, he holds – just for a moment. Breathing the same air proves sweet satisfaction. Loki’s is slow and even. It is almost as if he could follow him into sleep, had Loki not jerked upward and pressed hard against his erection.

“Well?”

A hand snakes between them. Loki knows all too well how to guide him in, to bring him home again. Then he closes his eyes, sighs, goes boneless and content. Turning his great body over to muscle memory, Thor revels in the languid simplicity of his cresting pleasure. This requires no thought. He is just satisfied to be in the moment with his brother. The fire, bright and warm, flares up at their side. He smiles, revels in the heat of it – but the spluttering, then, is something unexpected. The sudden pain is something worse still.

Rocketing backward, one hand slapped down upon his own bottom, Thor bellows; dancing about scarcely does anything to relieve the pain of the little burn, but it eases the frustration. That in turn is short-lived, when he realises Loki is all but in hysterics.

“Why are you _laughing_? It’s not funny!”

“Oh, but it _is_!”

“Stop it.” Scowling now, he cranes his head around, sees a small patch of angry red skin upon his golden ass. “I know healing seiðr is not your speciality, but you could at least offer to d _o something_ about this.”

“Oh, you do know how to compliment your bedmates, don’t you?” Sour as the words are, his eyes sparkle with pure mirth. “I rather think I won’t.”

“Loki!”

Closing his eyes, his little brother rolls himself into the blanket without another word. Tight as the manoeuvre was, a faint chuckle still emerges, the well-fought suppression of outright laughter betrayed by the faint shaking of his shoulders. Then, in a moment, he is still. Only the dark crown of his head remains in sight, the rest well-hidden in his mockery.

The temptation can only prove too strong – and his storm-riddled temper has never been easily turned back. Loki now is just as frustrating as he had been when a small and quick child prancing about with trick and tease. It’s altogether too easy to turn about, to snatch up the bucket of water kept by the fire for need of emergency. Thor has dumped it over Loki’s head before he even realises what he’s done.

Like a scalded cat Loki rocks upward, aura and eyes alike ablaze with green-gold flame. Anyone else might have had sense enough to turn and take to their heels. Thor only lunges forward, meets Loki’s snarling fury with a whooping war-cry of his own.

The camp can hardly hope to stand up to the destruction they wreak across it; rolling, kicking, biting: they are a tangle of limbs traversing the area, locked always together. Loki has always been a master of wrestling; given his slight form and lean musculature, he had learned the laws of leverage long ago. He’s won many a bout simply by understanding how best to turn a physical trick, but in the end Thor is heavier, and Thor is stronger. He ends it straddling his younger brother, hands cupped about a stubborn jaw, leaning forward so that their noses almost touch.

“You need to apologise.”

“For what? I didn’t make the fire jump out at your ass.” The petulance of his stuck-out lip, the way his fists clench to hard little fists, is everything of Loki in the earliest years of his education. “It probably wasn’t even aiming for it, besides. It was just such a large target it couldn’t help but hit.”

By rights he ought to be furious. But Thor somehow cannot help but laugh. Loki’s resulting bewilderment only makes it all the harder to stop. Unable to support the weight of his own tangled thoughts, Thor lowers his head until his forehead rests upon the long clean line of Loki’s collarbone. Still he continues to shake with scarcely withheld laughter, not caring if it might ever actually stop. Reality only seeps back into his mind when one uncertain hand, long-fingered and trembling, tangles loosely in his hair.

“You are a fool.”

The words are scarcely above a whisper. But then Thor hears them by something more than traditional means; his chest aches with something more than laughter when he breathes his own answer across the damp skin of his brother’s chest. “I believe we both are.”

“Well, I _am_ here with you,” Loki observes, despairing; Thor’s hands move down, curve about his waist.

“And I am glad for it.”

When Loki says nothing in reply, Thor draws back, just enough to search those strange green eyes with his own. But then, mystery though Loki might always prove, the truth of him is easy enough to know, when one knows what the lies are built upon.

Their kiss is easy, soft; it holds nothing of the heightened passions of the earlier evening. There might have been disappointment in that, under other circumstances. In this moment it is perfect. Ghosting his fingers downward, Thor finds Loki still slick, still loose. It takes scarcely a vague movement of hip and thigh to slip back in. And then he needs no further movement of his own, except in echo of Loki’s own. His brother instead moves against him in soft, sinuous wave. With lips pressed to the pulse of his throat Loki coaxes from him release. Then, he holds him close to his breast. The cool night air upon his skin is as the stillness after storm, quiet and rich in the memory of chaos and rebirth.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Loki sighs, shifts but a little. “We must.”

“Why?”

That earns him a snort. His little brother had always been the more sensible of the two of them, recent experience quite aside. “Because that is how things are.”

“So says the agent of chaos.”

“Ah, well.” His smile proves crooked, close-mouthed and wry. “It’s the last thing you would expect me to say, is it not?”

It can be difficult to know when Loki is teasing, and when he treads more delicate territory. Thor considers both for a moment. Then he echoes with his own sigh, and simply wraps about him the way he might have done with a favoured blanket in babyhood. “You make my head ache.”

“Then my work here is done.”

Rocking upright, Thor’s scowl all but cuts his face in thunderous line. “ _No_.” The startled look on Loki’s face, however, changes his temper like the sun emerging from behind black cloud. “No, there is still so much more for us to do, yet.” He leans forward, dots a kiss upon the tip of his nose. “ _Together_.”

One hand bats him away, the gesture as aged as the memories of their shared childhood. “Still so mired in sentiment.”

“No.” Mutinous, now, Thor lies back down with arms and legs alike curled around his brother. “Just tangled up in you.”

Faint laughter is all that emerges from the curled up ball that is his brother. Thor can live with that. Like the stars above, what they share might move across skies and above worlds unknown, but the basic configuration is near immutable. Closing his eyes, he allows himself a smile, and the encroachment of sleep. Morning will come. But Loki will still be there when it arrives, and Thor knows that in truth, he could ask for little more.

In this, he has everything he has ever desired.


End file.
